“Why do you hate Sorley so?” questioned Fuller, bluntly.
“You wish to know. Then you shall. I hate him because he ruined my brother Baldwin, because he murdered my brother Baldwin, and because he deserted me twenty years ago.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean what I say, Mr. Fuller. Do you know who I am? You don’t. Well, I am Mrs. Sorley.” Alan stared. “His wife?”
“His deserted wife,” corrected the woman bitterly. “Yes; Randolph married me because I was a pretty girl. But he grew tired of me, and then he wanted to make a rich lady his wife.”
“Yes; I have heard that,” said Alan recalling the story of his mother, about Miss Marchmont.
“It was a secret marriage,” said Miss Grison; “he asked me to keep it secret, as he feared lest his sister, Mrs. Inderwick, should ask him to leave The Monastery if she learned what he had done. The lady he wished to make his wife died, or I should have spoken out. But Baldwin forged that check, and the sole way in which I could prevent Randolph from putting him in the dock was by promising to hold my tongue for ever. He gave me money, and I came here to set up this boarding-house. And I took the peacock to punish him, afterwards giving it to Baldwin. Randolph fought me, but I said that I would destroy it if he used force. And then—well,” she broke off abruptly, “can you blame me for hating this man? He ruined my brother and he ruined me and I—hush! What’s that? Mr. Latimer!”
It was indeed Dick, who came hastily into the room.
“Alan! Alan, come with me to the police office.”
“What is the matter?”